Dinner with the Lancasters

The dining hall could have comfortably seated fifty, but the long mahogany table was set for only five—an intimate gathering by Lancaster standards. Candles flickered in silver holders, casting dancing shadows across the fine porcelain and polished silverware. Therion eyed the array of forks beside his plate with the wary confusion of a man who usually ate with his hands.

Lyria took her seat with the ease of someone who had endured a lifetime of stiff formal dinners. Ardyn sat straighter than usual, as if his spine had been reinforced with steel. Therion, meanwhile, slouched into his chair like a disgruntled cat forced into a bath.

Lord Alistair Lancaster surveyed them all from the head of the table, his expression unreadable. "So," he said, unfolding his napkin with precise movements. "These are the associates you've been traveling with."

Lyria sipped her wine. "Unfortunately."

A servant appeared soundlessly, pouring a rich red into crystal goblets. Therion sniffed his, then shrugged and downed it in one gulp. The servant's eye twitched.

The first course arrived—some delicate arrangement of herbs and edible flowers that looked more like a garden than food. Ardyn poked at it cautiously. Therion leaned toward Lyria. "Is this what rich people call 'salad' or is it just decoration we're supposed to ignore?"

Lyria speared a flower with her fork. "Eat it and find out."

Lord Lancaster cleared his throat. "I understand you've been involved in some... unusual activities recently."

Therion grinned. "You could say that. Last week we—"

"—helped resolve a minor trade dispute between neighboring villages," Lyria cut in, kicking Therion under the table.

Ardyn nodded vigorously. "Very minor. Barely worth mentioning."

The second course arrived—seared fish with some elaborate sauce drizzled in artistic swirls. Therion stared at the portion size. "Is this food or a suggestion of food?"

A muscle jumped in Lord Lancaster's jaw. "The chef prepares portions appropriate for a seven-course meal."

Therion looked mournfully at his plate. "So I'm supposed to stay hungry until course six? Got it."

Lyria massaged her temples.

As the meal progressed, the conversation turned—through some dark magic of aristocratic small talk—to local politics. Lord Lancaster fixed Ardyn with a piercing look. "And what are your thoughts on the new tax reforms in the eastern provinces?"

Ardyn froze, a forkful of roasted vegetables halfway to his mouth. "I... think taxes are... important?"

Therion snorted into his wine.

The fourth course—some sort of game bird—was interrupted when Therion discovered the tiny fork meant for extracting meat from bones. He held it up, squinting. "What is this? A fork for ants?"

Lyria closed her eyes. "Just eat the damn pheasant."

By the fifth course (a palate-cleansing sorbet that Therion attempted to drink like a shot), the tension had reached a breaking point. Lord Lancaster set down his utensils with deliberate care. "Lyria. A word in the study after dinner."

The unspoken "alone" hung in the air.

The cheese course arrived with an assortment of crackers and jams. Therion immediately began constructing what could only be described as a cheese monstrosity, layering every available variety into a unstable tower. Ardyn watched in horrified fascination as it grew taller.

Lord Lancaster observed this with the detached interest of a scientist watching bacteria multiply. "I see your companions lack... refinement."

Lyria shrugged. "They grow on you. Like mold."

The final course—an elaborate chocolate dessert—was nearly ruined when Therion's cheese tower collapsed, scattering brie across the tablecloth. The head butler looked like he might spontaneously combust from suppressed outrage.

As servants cleared the plates, Lord Lancaster rose. "Lyria. My study. Now."

The moment the door closed behind them, Therion slumped back in his chair. "Well that was fun. When's the next course?"

Ardyn groaned. "There are no more courses. That was dessert."

Therion looked genuinely distressed. "But I'm still hungry."

A nearby servant sighed audibly.

In the study, the real conversation was just beginning. Lord Lancaster poured two fingers of amber liquor. "You're running out of time, Lyria."

She took the glass but didn't drink. "I'm aware."

Outside, the moon rose over the Lancaster estate, its light catching on the silverware still perfectly arranged on the now-empty table. Somewhere in the kitchens, a long-suffering chef prepared a sandwich for a complaining thief.

Meanwhile, Outside the Estate Walls…

A single strand of blue hair, caught on the iron gates, fluttered in the breeze.

Somewhere in the city, a certain stranger smiled.